


...'Til I Come Undone

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [61]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, mention of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...'Til I Come Undone

LXI.

Okay, that could’ve been smoother. He can feel his face getting hot and resists the urge simply to bury his face in his hands and pretend he’s not there.

Castiel is still silent and, after a moment or two, Dean risks opening one eye again. The angel is still there, studying his own hands on Dean’s knees with some attention and Dean raises his own hands to press the heels of his palms against his eyes until he sees multicolored sparks.

‘Y’know what? ‘S stupid. Never mind. Just forget it.’ Dean shoves himself to his feet, ignoring Castiel’s startled yelp as he nearly goes over backwards, and steps over to the bedside table. He yanks open the drawer and moves to sweep the small array into it as Castiel scrambles back to his feet and drops to sit on the edge of the bed.

‘Stop -- wait --’ Castiel’s hand comes down on his wrist and Dean glowers down at it.

‘Look, it’s fine, Cas. I was just...it was just...’

‘I was not saying no.’ Castiel tugs gently on his wrist and Dean either has to turn around and look at him or stand there like a sulky kid. Obviously, his choice is clear. ‘Dean, look at me.’

Dean scowls at his own feet and doesn’t move.

‘Dean.’

‘C’mon, it was a stupid idea. Just let me...I can take it back...’

‘What is this?’ Castiel picks up a bottle, tilts it into the light of the bedside lamp.

Dean glances at it, then shakes his head. ‘Lotion. Just...some... I thought...’

‘Lotion?’

‘I thought it smelled nice, okay?’ In the store it had been a warm, sharply clean scent cutting through the faint fug of spices and floor cleaner. The woman -- Gerta -- had handed it to him with a wink, suggesting that the spice of peppermint might be something he’d enjoy. He’d damn near fallen through the floor.

‘And...you wanted to use this...on me?’

Dean grits his teeth and plants his palms firmly on the tabletop so he can’t do anything stupid with them like throw the lotion through a window. That would definitely piss Bobby off. 

‘Yes.’ 

Monosyllables. Those are good. He can’t sound too stupid with those.

‘And this?’ 

Dean risks another glance down at Castiel’s hand. ‘It’s...I...look, it doesn’t matter.’ He grabs the small bottle of lube away from the angel and throws it in the drawer so hard it bounces back out and rolls under the bed. He growls at it and picks it up, tossing it down on the table; it was too fucking expensive to donate to the dust bunnies. ‘Stupid idea, remember.’

‘I do not see why.’ Castiel replaces the bottle of lotion carefully on the table and, before Dean can do or say anything else, has unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the end of the bed. He regards Dean calmly. ‘Would you like me to undress the rest of the way now?’

‘Uh...I...’ Dean swallows hard and listens to the blood rush in his ears for a few seconds. Slowly, even a little stiffly, he kneels down in front of Cas, balancing himself with a hand on the edge of the bed.

The bedside lamp has a patterned shade: dark green leaves and branches that twine around in an endless tangle over a light yellow background. The light it casts is slightly golden and Dean reaches out and traces a shadow over Castiel’s right shoulder. 

‘Dean?’

When Dean glances up, Castiel is _almost_ smiling at him. One corner of his mouth is slightly curved and Dean’s throat is dry and he can’t quite get a deep breath. 

Oh, fuck.

What if he fucks this up? 

What reason does he have to think he _won’t_ fuck this up?

He’s fucked it up every _other_ time so--

‘Dean -- stop.’ Castiel’s fingers are cool over his lips. ‘Answer my question.’

‘What -- what question?’ Dean blinks and looks up at him, trying like hell not to get up and run out of the room.

‘Do you want me to get naked now?’ 

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. ‘Yeah...yeah, that’d be....yeah.’

‘Help me.’ And Castiel is standing up, forcing Dean to stand up, too, or get knocked flat on his ass. 

Dean rises and, for a moment or two, lets Castiel guide him around, feeling his fingers undo Castiel’s belt, snap the fastening on Castiel’s trousers, slide down the zipper -- all with a kind of mechanical distance that means none of the actions really register. 

The fact of what he’s doing kicks in when Castiel’s trousers drop in a crumpled pool around his ankles and Dean feels hot skin and rough hair and _no more cloth_ under his fingertips. 

He sucks in his breath with a gasp and looks up at Castiel’s face. He thinks later that he must’ve looked totally shocked, like the angel just slapped him or something, but Castiel just stands where he is and waits, one hand lightly resting on Dean’s wrist. 

‘Cas...’ It sounds like he’s choking and feels a bit like he is, too, like the air’s backed up in his throat. 

‘I was doing laundry,’ Castiel says calmly, as if going commando is something he does _all the fucking time_ and just never _bothered_ to mention before.

 _Okay, okay, okay---_ Dean really hadn’t been counting on it being -- like this. He’d imagined -- well, a little more _work_ honestly, not one button and one zipper and Castiel-- 

He swallows hard and looks down at where his fingertips are brushing Castiel’s belly, just below his navel, just where a scatter of dark hair starts. ‘Jesus, Cas...’ 

Castiel’s muscles tense slightly, nothing Dean would have noticed had the angel not been stark fucking _naked_ under his hand. Castiel’s voice is quiet. ‘Is...something wrong?’

Dean shakes his head slowly, still staring at where his fingers touch Castiel’s skin. 

Castiel is pale -- pale all over which isn’t that surprising, really, and what’s amazing is not how strange it is to see so _much_ of the angel but how much it _isn’t_ strange. If Dean were to tilt his head slightly, for example, he could see the snarled mass of scar tissue on Castiel’s shoulder from the demon bite. If he brought his hand up Castiel’s arm, he could touch the old burn scar from Jimmy’s accident. If he were to ask Castiel to turn around, he’d be able to see the more recent bruising from Oriana over his shoulders that the angel hasn’t bothered to heal.

Instead of doing any of that, though, he makes himself breathe slowly, flatten his palm against Castiel’s side, not think about _anything_ except the pale curves, arches, and lines in front of him: bone, muscle, skin. 

The ‘breathing slowly’ idea isn’t entirely working in his favor because he can _smell_ Castiel: the faint tinge of earthy spice that comes off the angel’s skin whenever he moves and something tangier, saltier below that. 

He moves his hand carefully, flattening his palm over the curve of Castiel’s hip, the sharp arch of bone centered under his palm. ‘I...lie down. Okay, Cas? Just...okay?’

Castiel says nothing, but shifts back onto the bed and stretches out on the worn old quilt, arms at his sides, dark eyes on Dean. 

Dean swallows hard -- and runs up against the first snag in his plan. 

There’s always one or two: finding you have the wrong ammo (ghosts rather than weres) or the wrong knife blade (silver rather than wood) but they don’t usually involve his own clothes. 

_Fuck. Fuck it._

He closes his eyes and blows out a long breath; deciding about whether or not he takes off his t-shirt has never brought him this close to what he thinks might be a panic attack before.

‘Dean?’ Castiel props himself up on his elbows, tilting his head slightly, and Dean turns to find something -- _anything_ \-- to do on the bedside table. He digs his lighter out of his pocket and lights the thick pillar candle Greta had slipped among his purchases, muttering something about ‘atmosphere.’ He turns out the light and the room is lit only with the unsteady flame which climbs, consumes the extra wick, and then settles down to a steady glow.

Of course, that leaves him with nothing to do except put his lighter down with a click and make a decision he’d conveniently forgotten about when putting together this fantastically fucked-up plan of his.

‘Dean?’ 

‘Hang on a second, Cas.’ He closes his eyes, runs a quick series of scenarios in his head, hates all of them, and shucks off his jeans. He can’t go any further -- not right now. Whether he looks stupid or not, the boxers and shirt are staying on. The cool air on his skin is a tiny bit nausea-inducing and suddenly he can smell the smoke of the burned wick more clearly than he thinks is right.

There’s a hand on his arm, though, and, when he pops the top on the bottle of lotion, the smell of burning is drowned in vanilla and mint.

‘Slide over a bit...’ He nudges Castiel’s thigh with his knee until the angel obligingly scoots a foot or so to his left, leaving Dean more than enough room to kneel on the mattress. In the dimmer light, Castiel’s skin doesn’t look pale so much as gilded and slightly luminous and soft and warm and _here_ in the most terrifyingly awesome way. 

Castiel’s still watching him, eyes now just dark in the candlelight, and Dean can see his breathing moving evenly but quickly. And it only strikes him _now_ that he has no idea what any of Castiel’s tells for pleasure might be. Pain? He’s all over that ten ways from Sunday; he doesn’t think Castiel could probably so much as stub a toe without him noticing but--

‘Dean.’ Castiel reaches up and touches his wrist, wraps cool fingers around his arm. ‘Whatever you want.’ 

‘What?’ Dean blinks down at him, wondering if he’s been talking out loud all this time without realizing it.

The corner of Cas’ mouth quirks up again and he tilts his head slightly on the pillow, a sort of teasing gesture Dean would never have thought the angel capable of until he saw him do it. 

Then, slowly, carefully, watching him the whole time, Castiel guides Dean’s hand to his shoulder, smoothes Dean’s palm over his breastbone, over the hard peak of his nipple, down over his ribcage, and back up on the other side of his chest.

This can’t be right -- this wasn’t the plan -- the plan was-- the plan was-- Oh, fuck the whole plan anyway. Improvisation’s always been more Dean’s style.

By the time Dean remembers to breathe, he’s been basically _petting_ Cas for ten minutes and he’s got the bottle of lotion clutched in his free hand like it’s holy water. Castiel isn’t guiding his hand any more; instead, his eyes are closed and his hands are flattened against the quilt, fingers digging into the colored squares of cloth just a little as Dean’s fingers travel with increasing familiarity over the curves, dips, and bumps of his torso. 

The lotion makes the trip a bit smoother and Castiel’s skin warmer. It slicks Dean’s palms and makes Cas shine a little in the candlelight: breastbone, collarbone, ribs, and shoulders gleaming in the golden light. There’s no hint of burning left in the air now; all Dean can smell is spice and mint and skin. 

He’s not really thinking about where he’s moving his hands any more -- just lost in the feeling of skin and muscle under his fingers -- and Castiel’s half-stifled moan when his right hand drifts down over Castiel’s thigh is startling. He freezes where he is, one hand on Castiel’s lower ribs, the other just above his left knee. ‘Cas?’

The angel licks his lips and blinks open eyes that spark bright blue in the light of the candle. ‘Yes, Dean?’

‘You...you okay?’ Then Dean shifts slightly, meaning to give Castiel a reassuring squeeze above the knee. Instead, his hand slips on lotion and he brushes over Castiel’s dick instead, his palm skimming hot skin and curling hair and the angel gasps, the muscles of his stomach tightening. 

_Oh, God...._ Dean stares down at his hands, suddenly desperate to see what he’s been deliberately not looking at. Castiel isn’t fully hard yet but he’s getting there, filling out as Dean watches: a slim, sturdy curve with a plumply swollen head, gleaming a little in the candlelight and Dean finds himself thinking rather hazily that if they ever fuck -- _Jesus!_ \-- he’ll have to remember Cas curves slightly to the left and take that into account.

Part of him wants to cut to the chase right now. Cas is clearly ready or damned close to it -- all it would take is shifting his hand a little to the right and opening his fingers -- or, maybe better, his mouth-- 

But that definitely wasn’t the plan.

That’s too close to the night he doesn’t remember.

Instead, he lifts himself over Castiel’s hips and knees the smaller man’s legs apart until he can kneel between his thighs, almost but not quite letting the swelling curve of Castiel’s dick brush against his own abdomen. 

‘Cas.’

It takes a minute but the angel’s eyes open again and he stares up at Dean.

‘’m gonna kiss you, okay?’

Castiel licks his lips, nods, and Dean leans forward, feeling the hot press against his stomach and tasting Castiel’s soft moan when he brushes against the other man’s mouth. 

Castiel _always_ tastes good. Either it’s some angel trick or Dean’s standards have changed or _something_ because Cas never tastes like sour coffee or last night’s pizza. 

Dean tests out the theory with a careful lick into Castiel’s mouth, the tip of his tongue brushing Castiel’s and then he’s not sure which of them groans. He’s sure that Castiel is the first one to nip at the inside of Dean’s lower lip, sucking on the skin until it feels bruised, tender, hot, fucking fantastic. 

He can feel Castiel’s hands on his shoulders, fisting in the cloth of his worn t-shirt, sliding down his arms, blunt nails raking up over his ribs until he has to break away from Castiel’s mouth to gasp. Castiel takes advantage of the pause to close the few inches’ distance between his mouth and Dean’s neck and lick his way down to a spot between Dean’s collarbones that Dean honestly had _no_ idea would send a streak of pure heat shooting straight down to his toes.

‘Cas...you don’t...it’s not...’

The angel drops his head back and cranes so he can see Dean’s face. ‘What?’

Dean rakes together his remaining brain cells and blinks so he can focus Cas. ‘This...This is for you, not me --’ He drops his head, licks his way across Castiel’s breastbone, savoring the mixed flavors of mint, sweat, and whatever magic makes Cas taste of faint spices. 

And that’s kind of a lie. It _is_ for Cas -- he planned it with the angel in mind, every minute of it, but it’s for him, too.

Castiel doesn’t seem to get the idea, though; Dean can feel his hands wandering, exploring, testing down his sides, over the planes of his stomach, thumbs smoothing into the creases above his hips under the cloth of his boxers, and Dean pushes against the touch for a minute before-- _‘Fuck_ \-- Cas!’ 

He jerks himself away, pushing himself up on his hands and Castiel’s staring at him with wide eyes, one hand open, palm up on the pillow. ‘Dean -- I am...sorry... I did not mean to...hurt you...’ 

Dean looks at him for a long minute, then reaches down and slides his fingers between Castiel’s, bringing the angel’s hand up so he can smell the familiar tang of his own body mixed with Castiel’s scent. ‘Cas, I don’t think I... I mean, I don’t...’ He grits his teeth, sternly ignores the voice in the back of his head that tells him to go the fuck ahead: the angel clearly knows what the hell he’s getting into and Dean’s pretty sure his body’s ready to swing it. 

But that _definitely_ wasn’t the plan. And going down that road again won’t do either of them any good. They’ve stuck this out long enough with crap sex and no sex and Dean’s fucking _stupid_ body. If this is how he’s got to fix it, then he’s not letting anyone -- not even Cas -- distract him. ‘I don’t want...to hurt you. Again.’

There. That’s better than ice water down the back of his neck. 

Castiel studies him and shakes his head slightly on the pillow -- a soft rasp of dark hair -- and reaches up with his free hand to trace the line of Dean’s cheekbone. ‘I told you before--’

‘That’s not the point.’ Dean swallows hard, swallowing back bitterness that might be bile or tears or who the hell knows what; he’s not stopping to think about it now. ‘I want -- I _need_ to know I can...I can do this without hurting you.’

Castiel looks at him for another moment and, just as Dean thinks he’s about to start arguing again, he nods and lets his hand drop back onto the pillow. 

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold and lets go of Castiel’s other hand. 

The whole exchange is a bit of a mood-breaker, really -- but it's nothing that Dean accidentally shifting his weight to grab the lotion bottle and Castiel’s sudden, involuntary gasp can’t cure. 

Dean leans back on his right knee and smoothes both hands over Castiel’s stomach, combing his fingertips through the rough dark curls around the base of his cock, pressing his thumb against the pulsepoint inside Castiel’s thigh.

Castiel is breathing in sharp, shallow pants, his hips jerking up against Dean’s hands.

‘You can move if you want...’ Dean leans over to the bedside table, fumbling in the dimness near the base of the candle until he finds the bottle he’s tested until he knows he can operate it one-handed. He doesn’t need a lot; it’s not like he’s planning to slick himself up and-- 

Okay, he really needs to _not_ think about that because those thoughts send the same clenching heat through his gut that Castiel’s brief touch had. And this isn’t about him.

Except for the part where it really, really is.

He doesn’t need to know if he can come; hell, he doesn’t even care if he can get hard as fast as he used to. 

He doesn’t need to know if he could take being fucked or fingered or sucked.

He _does_ need to know that he can do this -- touch Cas, make him feel good, see him respond -- without losing his shit, without waking up three hours later and not knowing what he’s done.

So, with that in mind, he stretches out beside Castiel, pillowing his head on Castiel’s shoulder, one hand tangled in Castiel’s, the other stroking over the hot, tense curve of Castiel’s dick. 

The lube is cool, like aloe on a burn, and it makes everything feel kind of silky. Dean keeps his hand light, stroking rather than pumping, smoothing rather than gripping, testing out what gets him sounds that make Castiel gasp and his own balls clench tight. 

He really _wasn’t_ worried about whether or not he’d get hard -- but it’s kinda nice it’s happening anyway. He can feel the burn in his gut converting to a steady heat, feel the pulse between his thighs, even though he doesn’t bother looking down.

Cas isn’t a big fan of pressure; that one’s pretty easy to figure out. But he starts making small whimpering noises in the back of his throat when Dean plays with his balls, stroking over the smooth stretch of skin between them and the tight pucker of muscle less than a hands-breadth away. 

The angel doesn’t talk -- doesn’t gasp out Dean’s name, or start to curse, or make requests -- but his hands clench tight, against the quilt on one side and around Dean’s fingers on the other and his body talks for him, his hips jerking up as Dean finds a particularly sensitive spot at the base of his cock and teases it with his thumb. 

The mix of scents in the room is changing: vanilla and mint are being overwhelmed by sweat and tang and Dean would really love to stay here and just see how long he could string Cas along but the angel is damn near hyperventilating as it is. 

He wraps his fingers around that sweet, hot curve and pumps, once, twice, getting a feel for what pressure and speed will make Castiel arch up off the bed, grip Dean’s hand so tight he loses feeling in his fingers. 

Castiel chokes as he comes, whole body tensing in a gorgeous arc off the bed as he spatters Dean’s hand and his own stomach. He curls into Dean as he relaxes back down onto the quilt, burying his face against Dean’s shoulder. Dean can hear and feel Cas panting for breath and he loosens his fingers a little, just enough that he can gentle Cas through the last shocks, ease the last bit of tension out of him -- and, yeah, there’s that final spurt over his fingers and Castiel moans against his shoulder. 

Dean stretches, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, and does a rough drying job of his hand on Castiel’s thigh -- not that it makes much difference; he’d forgotten they’d probably need a towel. 

Castiel swallows harshly, raising his head. ‘Can...can I touch you now?’

‘Uh --’ Dean hadn’t actually thought that far ahead, but Castiel doesn’t so much wait for an answer as take Dean’s lack of protest as assent. 

Before Dean can glue together any words, Castiel is _over_ him, shoving off his boxers with unsteady hands, and then there’s skin on skin on skin all the way down and Dean can’t stop himself shuddering or find words to tell Cas he doesn’t really need to do this. Anyway, even if he did know how to say it, Castiel’s fingertips are currently exploring a hard, aching curve against his lower abdomen that would make a liar out of him.

There are warm hands everywhere and a mouth everywhere the hands aren’t and Castiel is talking to him, that low rough voice going on about his body and the taste of his skin and the look of him and shit he doesn’t even _believe_ but his nerve endings aren’t listening and he can hear himself gasping and pushing and aching and--

Castiel makes a distinctly pleased sound as he curls back against Dean’s chest, his wet hand sliding over Dean’s belly as Dean struggles to get his breath back.

‘What...what the _fuck...’_ Dean eventually gasps out.

‘You did not hurt me,’ Castiel says quietly, his dark hair tickling against Dean’s cheek. _‘Either_ way. Now you know.’

‘Smart-ass angel...’ Dean grumbles, digging his toes under the blanket folded at the bottom of the bed until he can drag it up over both of them.

Castiel makes a small huffing sound that might be a laugh. ‘I learned from you.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "FMLYHM," Seether, _Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces._
> 
> And there you have it, folks. A 61-part monster of a fic that ate my brain for the best part of two years and started when I was going to "show my girlfriend" how to write fic. (I think she's [figured it out](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane).)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and kudos'ing -- you have made my (re)introduction to fanfic a wonderful experience! And for those of who for whom this will be good news, I now have nothing else to think about (okay, okay, a handful of one-offs) except the [Boston 'verse.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/27955)


End file.
